


The Scent of Potions

by gingertart50



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Implied Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:57:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1735346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingertart50/pseuds/gingertart50
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry realises that you can never go back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scent of Potions

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Dusk to Dawn 2007. Not DH-compliant. Note 1: What if?? What if some event in the books went differently – Voldemort falls in HBP but at what cost?

Harry came back to the ruins of Hogwarts, wondering whether he was looking for absolution or a last wallow in grief before he got on with his life.

The castle had become a place of pilgrimage for those who needed to see where their children had died. Stasis charms held strewn roses and sprays of lilies in perfection, their scent faint on the still, crisp air. Harry remembered Neville and Sprout, and the glory of the greenhouses in spring.

All the old, benevolent ghosts had gone, scoured away by the gales of raw magic that had been unleashed in the final battle. Harry stepped warily over cracked paving slabs and heaps of fused slag, wondering how anyone could have lived through it all.

The Great Hall was open to the sky; long tables white with bird-droppings. Here a succession of Weasleys had feasted; there the headmaster had sat with McGonagall faithful at his side; Flitwick; and the sturdy, loyal Hagrid had all been here once upon a time, when Harry had believed Dumbledore was invincible.

Slytherins must have cleared the way to the dungeons. Harry stopped before a splintered wooden door, closing his eyes. If only he could find a huge time-turner and wind back all the passing days, crawl back into his younger, innocent self. If he stood here, would Ron’s amused snort and Hermione’s eager advice float once again upon the still air? If he raised his hand and knocked, would he hear that low, seductive voice? The door grated open.

“Don’t just stand there, Potter!” He could almost hear the rough-velvet cadence of the words.

Harry took a tentative step, and there were the scents of herbs, spices and formaldehyde, so faint and yet so utterly familiar as the past swept him up into its seductive arms. Tears welled in his eyes.

“I know what you did, Snape” he whispered, “You were the bravest of us all.”

The scent of ancient potions and the soft tinkle of a stirring rod being set down, the brush of robes upon a swept stone floor. Harry gulped back a sob and opened his eyes. “If you were here, I’d tell you,” he said, “But you’re nothing but a memory.”

“Are you quite sure about that, Mr Potter?”

“Yes.” Harry turned his back and walked away, wiping his sleeve across his face. “You knew it when you left, didn’t you? Even your ghost will never return to Hogwarts.”

He climbed back into daylight, to the song of a single late bird. He felt the tiny, subtle tremble of the wards that remained, mere ghosts themselves, and Disapparated.

He arrived at his tiny cottage, hidden behind powerful charms, apple trees and high hedges, and walked through the garden gate into his new life. There was the scent of spices, and a tall, lank-haired man who gazed down into a cauldron and asked, in a voice like silk being cut by steel, “Was it as harrowing as I predicted?”

“Worse,” Harry said.

“There’s pumpkin pie,” Snape remarked, not unkindly. Harry nodded, and went to make the tea. 


End file.
